


Centipede, Barista; Rain, Book

by pseudocitrus



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Oneshot, Shironeki | White-haired Kaneki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 20:47:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3543260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudocitrus/pseuds/pseudocitrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A human barista, and a kakuja ghoul on the run from the CCG.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Centipede, Barista; Rain, Book

**Author's Note:**

> this is the product of getting sooo fired up by this anon prompt on tumblr *///*
>
>> omgg you should totally write a touken spiderman au fic! Like instead of spider powers kaneki is a ghoul and touka is human and they do the famous upside down mary jane-spiderman kiss (im dying of touken feels help me ive never shipped anything this hard)
> 
> i wrote it while stuck in like five hours of traffic, whew.
> 
> hope you're having a good day; enjoy!

She races — or rather, stumbles — as fast as she can in heels and in the rain and with an ugly gash up the side of her leg and her heart beating so fast that it feels like a monster trying to claw its way out of her body completely.

Touka’s tights tear on the edge of a dumpster, and she sinks ankle-deep into a puddle that splashes mud all up her uniform skirt, but still she keeps her gaze averted up and to the skyline, eyes squinting, searching desperately for shapes beyond the golden splinters of water splattering on her face.

Soon, the wail of sirens fades, and all she can hear is the harsh huff of her own breath, which is getting even shorter. That the sirens have quelled means they could have lost him.

But, it also means he could have been captured.

“Centipede?” she calls. And then, a little louder: “Centipede?”

No answer.

She crashes into another dumpster and gasps and only barely manages to suppress her impulse to punch it. She can’t help, however, a frustrated snarl of a noise.

_It’s not his fault! You’re after the wrong fucking person!_

Touka tries to calm down, tries to take deep breaths. Even though she’s far from the action now, her pulse doesn’t slow.

Centipede’s eye flashes again in her memory, its scarlet iris wide as he pushes her out of the way of the One-Eyed Owl’s bladed wings. His arms around her had been tight and warm, making sure she wouldn’t fall.

She was sure those weren’t the gaze or grip of someone just doing what was necessary to repay a simple debt to her.

Touka stops, panting, and sets her hands on her knees. Her leg is beginning to throb, and blood is beginning to pool in her shoe. She’s drenched with rain. Centipede isn’t here, and if the CCG hasn’t found him, there’s no way that some simple barista could.

She limps home.

:::

She showers, and bandages her leg as best as she can, and changes into pajamas, and falls into bed. Her sleep is restless and that’s why she hears a strange, loud thunk beyond her bedroom.

She stops breathing. She throws herself out of bed, and races to the balcony window. She throws the doors open and shoves her drying clothes aside just as his shadow ascends.

“Wait!” she calls, in as loud a whisper as she dares. “Wait!”

For a moment it seems he is already gone. But then a shadow parts itself from the dark angles of the eaves — a shadow with long claws that maneuver their owner gracefully onto the balcony, and then recede into his back. His bare, black-nailed feet tap on the metal.

It’s the first time she’s ever been face-to-face with him since…before. Certainly it’s the first time they’ve been face-to-face in a situation that doesn’t involve violence and screaming.

Now that he is here, she doesn’t know what to say. It seems that he doesn’t, either.

The rain is still falling, giving her hope that no one will see them even if they happen to look outside their windows. The black clothing that he’s wearing is torn and damp with rain and blood. His pale hair is stuck in tapers, and his normally strong posture is slumped with exhaustion, or maybe pain. His eye has returned to human colors, but the skin beneath is dark. His tiredness doesn’t match the bared grin of his mask.

She sees his gaze drop down to her leg.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, looking away. “You came to save me and just got hurt.”

She huffs. “Don’t start with that.”

Shit, there she goes again. Centipede looks down at the ground, and before Touka can try some kinder words, he says, “I just came to return your book.”

He points at her balcony table. Touka doesn’t look.

“What did you think?” she asks instead.

“W-well…it was great. I really liked it.”

“Then stay,” she says, and his eye lifts to hers in surprise. “Let’s talk about it.”

He shakes his head.

“Just stay until you’re recovered,” she protests. “I can see you’re hurt. You don’t need to take off your mask. I’ll make you some coffee. Just rest a bit.”

He looks up at her, and even though she can’t see it, she can practically see the sad smile above the chin he’s rubbing.

“I’m fine, Kirishima-san. Please don’t worry about me. I’ll be…that is…ghouls heal fast, you know.”

“Only if they have human flesh,” she says, and she can hear his breath stop.

Touka takes a step forward, and he takes a step back.

“Centipede,” she says, and his kagune unfurl from his back. He rises begins to rise, upside down, but before he leaves completely Touka lunges and grabs his hand. He pauses, his head almost level with hers. His eye is wide, and watching her. He trembles. Red begins to bloom across his iris, eclipsed by the black of his dilating pupil.

This is definitely not the look of someone who just wants to repay her. Or someone that just sees her as a meaningless stranger, or even just a snack.

Touka reaches up to the mouth of his mask, and draws its zipper gently open. The ostentatious teeth part to reveal what is a very human mouth, with human lips, and human softness that she feels against the pad of her thumb. She pushes the bottom of the mask up and out of the way over his chin, and leans toward him.

She purses his lower lip between hers, and sucks gently, and is rewarded with his ragged exhale against her chin. His hands drop and cradle her face and Touka eases closer, presses her tongue against the seam of his mouth and then into it.

Heat surges through her body, even as goosebumps rise across her shoulders and arms. The wet slurp of their mouths meeting again and again seems so obscene in its loudness that she flushes. His tongue slides against hers, curling, velvet and hot and compelling, and — and does she taste even more delicious to him than he does to her?

It seems so impossible to her that they are different, that his ghoul’s body (with its warmth and its firmness and its gentle shivering) could feel any differently than her own. She wants to pull him down and against her, to feel the rest of his face against hers, to run her hands across the plane of muscles in the open part of his black suit.

They could spend hours here and it still wouldn’t be long enough. Too soon, his fingers straighten and lift away from her cheeks. He withdraws, and then all there is between them are the plumes of their breath, and a thin line of saliva that he licks away. He takes a deep breath.

“Thanks for the meal,” he murmurs.

He zips his mask up again.

“Come back again sometime,” Touka mumbles, and Centipede says nothing, doesn’t even nod.

Once again the only shadows around her are those cast by the eaves, and by her fluttering laundry. Blinking rapidly, she turns away. Her gaze drops to her balcony table, where she sees  _The Black Goat’s Egg_  — and something else. She picks it up, turns it over in her palm.

It’s a rabbit keychain.


End file.
